


Valor

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, asoiafkinkmeme, slight ooc jaime, young!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa visits the capitol for a tourney, and finds her white knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valor

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Ned travels to King's Landing for King Robert's nameday tournament, and brings Sansa, who is only five, with him. Her eyes light up when she sees Jaime. She calls him her golden knight, offers him her hand to kiss and follows him all over the castle. Cersei is annoyed, but Jaime is amused by the child's attention to him.
> 
> This is much too long for a prompt fill, but I got a bit carried away. I've also aged Sansa one or two years up. Thank you & enjoy!

"Father!"

Ned cannot stifle the noise, no matter how asleep he may pretend to be.

"Father, the tourney is today, you must get up!"

With a defiant groan, Ned tosses the pillows off of the bed and staggers towards the door, opening it wide to find a tiny Sansa, doll in hand, with big blue eyes staring up at him.

All chastisement he had aimed at his daughter before disappears from his mind, and he kneels to take Sansa's hand. "Sansa, dear, the tourney isn't for long." He gestures to the window. "It isn't even light out yet. How do you expect the knights will joust when they can't even see each other?"

Sansa blushes, studies her toes. "I'm sorry, Father. I just thought-"

"It's no bother." Ned gets to his feet again. "I know there are many knights you wish to see. But we must wait-"

"Ser Kingslayer."

Ned stops in his tracks. "What did you say?"

"Ser Kingslayer. You talked about him all the way here to Jory. Who is he?"

Ned turns around. "My dear, that isn't his name."

"Then why do you call him that?"

"His name is Ser Jaime, Jaime Lannister. Once he took a vow as a knight, and when... he had to test those vows, he couldn't. He broke them."

Sansa pays his words no mind. "I want to see him."

"You will. He's in the tourney today."

"Well, get dressed, then!" 

* * *

By the time King Robert collapses into his seat and signals the start of the tourney, Sansa is antsy. "Father, where are the knights?"

"Calm down, Sansa. We're at the tourney now, they shouldn't be long. You'll see them all, young and old, comely and... otherwise."

"Yes, but when?"

Ned laughs. "Gods be good, Sansa, where's all your patience, your manners? For a moment I thought you were your sister." That elicits another blush from his daughter, but he pays it no mind.

The first two knights ride in on trotting horses, in polished armor, waving at the crowd. Sansa gasps and clutches her father's arm. "There they are!"

Ser Barristan and Ser Garlan are at it first. Naturally, the Tyrell is unhorsed without hesitation, and Sansa claps, beaming. The tourney goes on for some time with more of the same behavior: every time a man falls off his horse, Sansa's beam grows wider and her claps become louder.

Then it is Ser Jaime's turn.

He is all in white, in proper Kingsguard fashion. He is all smiles, waving as he enters the field. The crowd does not recieve him well, save for a few respectable lords and ladies.

Sansa gasps, this one the loudest. "Who is he?" The blush has crept up into her cheeks again, before Ned can even speak.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer." 

Sansa turns to him in a flash. "Ser Kingslayer? Him? The way you described him, I thought he would be a nasty old man." She gestures to him, pointing. "How could anyone ever hate a man so lovely as him?"

"Oh, calm down, Sansa." He pats his daughter's back. "There, he's begun to ride."

It was true. Jaime had mounted a brilliant white mare, donning the traditional Kingsguard helm and taking up his lance. "Who is he facing?" Sansa asks.

Ned glances at Jaime's opponent. "A knight of Arryn. You remember Jon Arryn, don't you, Sansa?"

Sansa nods dutifully, clutching her father's arm. "Will he be hurt?"

"Who?"

"Ser King- Jaime."

"Doubtfully. A knight of the Kingsguard would be shamed to be unhorsed by a lower knight. It would show how weak the king's protection is."

Sansa ignores his words, only clutching her father tighter as the Kingslayer begins to ride.

The two knights ride closer and closer, lances poised at the chest, closer and closer...

Sansa hears the splintering of wood as Jaime's lance breaks against the cream and blue enameled shield of the Arryn knight, and as he hits the ground, the crowd goes silent, save for little Sansa.

The moment after the knight has been unhorsed, Sansa lets go of her father, stands up, and claps, beaming until her cheeks hurt. Jaime spots her, as does nearly every spectator of the scene, and smiles at the little girl. Who is she? He wonders. He has his answer when Lord Stark has the sense to tug her back down, the little lady Sansa. He smiles at her, nodding. She sees him, and smiles back, a smaller smile than her previous grin, but somehow more heartfelt, and softer, as if they had just embraced, or shared a secret.

Thoughts of the Stark girl linger in his mind long after the tourney has ended for the day. He protects the king through the evening feast, dines late with Ser Barristan after being relieved, and later pleasures his sister. Yet as he lays in his own room, back at the White Sword Tower, thoughts of Sansa come instead of sleep. _She was the only girl to cheer for me when I unhorsed that sorry excuse for a knight._ He grinned. _The Eyrie's best, eh, Jon Arryn? Perhaps when I'm rotting._

The next morning, back at the yard, Jaime spots the Stark girl with her father again, squirming in her seat. Here for who, though?

He unhorses two more knights that day, a cousin of the Tyrells and a Tully knight. The yard isn't any less silent when the man falls from his mount than yesterday, and each time he faces the yard little Sansa is there, clapping and beaming for him. The second time, Lord Stark has the decency to keep his daughter from standing, but she still claps, and she still beams, despite her father's sharp whispers in her ear.

In the end, he is to face Gregor Clegane the next day, as the two final contenders in the tourney. As he exits the yard, the throng of people beginning to clear away, he spots little Sansa running from her father's grasp, away form the seats and towards... Jaime?

The crowd of lords and ladies surrounding the girl becomes too much eventually, and soon enough a tall, lumbering man knocks her over without notice. She staggers and falls to the ground, placing her hands around her head to try and shield herself from the stampede.

Without thinking, Jaime is already by her side. Tears have sprung into her eyes and her dress is ruined from the dirt. He kneels down to her, and offers her his hand. "Are you alright, my lady?"

In the chaos, at first she doesn't recognize him. Yet as she wipes away her tears, dusts off her skirts, and finally takes his hand, she meets eyes with him. Her mouth forms a perfect o of surprise. "Ser Jaime-"

He smiles. "Shall I take you back to the Red Keep, my lady?" Small that she is, she manages to loop her arm through his, and the two of them follow the flow of the crowd out of the yard.

From the front of the yard, where the king sits, drinking wine and muttering drunken insults at every lord and lady that doesn't kiss his fat ass, Jaime spots his sister, standing next to her husband. Her eyes are cold, hard steel. He can almost hear her now.  _What in seven hells are you thinking? The Starks are our enemies._

"You  _are_  Sansa, correct?" Jaime asks. He wouldn't want to insult the poor girl, take her for her sister, but sure enough she does nod.

"And you are Ser Jaime Lannister." She recites. The pair walk with an air of dignity, although a few times Jaime sees the girl duck her head long enough for her blush to fade.

Their stroll does not last long, however. In an instant, Sansa is pulled from Jaime's arm, and before he realizes what's happened, Ned Stark is pulling his daughter across the yard, muttering into her ear. Jaime figures he could clear up the situation, and braves the wrath of Lord Stark to keep Sansa out of it. It wouldn't be the first time Lord Stark had misjudged.

He pushes his way through the crowd, and clears his throat when he approaches the lumbering lord. "Lord Eddard, I do hope I have not brought offense-"

Ned whips around, revealing a shocked Sansa, sporting another tear-streaked face. "Keep away from my daughter,  _kingslayer._ "

The insult is nothing new. The knight holds up his hands in defense. "I meant no harm to you or your lovely Sansa. You see, she had merely fallen in the bustle of the crowd, and I felt it was my duty as a knight-"

"Yes, I understand." Ned mutters gruffly under his breath. Without a goodbye, the two dive back into the crowd, Sansa whimpering and Ned furious. The young Stark girl looks back one more time, meeting eyes with Jaime before delving back into the throng of people. 

* * *

Sansa tosses and turns in bed. She cannot sleep for fear of tomorrow's tourney. Ser Gregor Clegane was so nasty. Even little Sansa, who had never been outside of the walls of Winterfell until a few fortnights ago, had heard tales of Gregor's brute violence, both in the tourney yard and on the battlefield. Ser Jaime was so lovely; he could never die. She had become so afraid for her new knight's life that she had only eaten a bite of supper before pushing back her plate and returning to her room.

Now she waits for dawn to come. Her father had gone to bed only an hour ago, yet it felt like she had lain in her own bed for years. Stretching, she sits up in bed, throws her legs over the side of the mattress, and shoves her feet into a pair of slippers. Crossing the room and throwing a wolfskin robe over her shoulders, she opens the creaking door as quietly as she can.

Her father's room is down the hall, and Jory Cassel guards it, but he was beginning to doze off in a chair. It's easy enough for Sansa to edge by him and continue down the hall.

Once she starts, however, she doesn't really know where she'll go, or how she'll get back, but doesn't hesitate to get lost within the castle walls. Lords and ladies, knights in full armor, Lannister guards, handmaidens, they all give her strange looks as she passes by. What's a small little girl like her doing up and about at this late an hour? She can practically hear them think. But she hardly pays them mind.

She didn't realize she had been looking for him until he nearly ran her over, coming out of the queen's chambers. He had doffed his polished white Kinsguard armor for a tunic and breeches, his hair slightly disheveled. Sansa would have liked to say she preferred him in all his knightly valor, one hand planted firmly on the pommel of his sword, another tucking his helm underneath his arm, all grins and smirks as his brilliant shining armor caught the sun and his white cloak billowed behind him. But Sansa felt herself become even more intrigued by the simpler man standing before her. He looked... softer, more gentle. He bore the same smile, but it had a different meaning, a different aura to it.

At first he doesn't seem to recognize her, but after a second of studying her face, Jaime's eyes light up, and he grins. "Sansa!" He leans up against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

Suddenly the Stark girl is at a loss for words, and all she can find to share is the truth. "Ser, I was restless, ser, because-"

"Jaime, sweet girl. My name is Jaime."

"...Jaime." Sansa gulps and then continues, trying not to look at her feet or fiddle with her hands. "I was... I was restless because of the tourney tomorrow."

Without invitation, Jaime takes the little girl's hand and the two begin to walk away from the queen's chambers, back the way Sansa had come. The girl continues to speak as Jaime Lannister listens, pensive as he weighs on every word she speaks. "The tourney tomorrow, it's going to be you, against, against... Ser Gregor Clegane."

"Ah yes, the Mountain that Rides." Jaime cuts in. "Quite a fighter."

"Yes, but you don't  _understand._ " Sansa insists. The grip she held on Jaime's hand had become more and more comfortable the longer they walked, her soft, small hand fitting perfectly inside his slender, worn one. "The Mountain has killed in tourneys before." Her small, high voice echoes off the stone walls of the keep. The corridors thinned out the farther they walked.

"Really?" Jaime nearly laughs. "Have you seen him do that?"

Sansa sticks her lip out, eyes gloomy. She can tell she is losing this argument. "No. But I've heard stories of it."

Jaime gives in. "Aye, and the stories are true, unfortunately. I've seen Ser Gregor strike down some great swordsmen. But I can assure you, he cannot strike down me."

Suddenly Sansa stops walking, turns to face Jaime, grasping one of his bigger hands with two of her smaller ones. "Please be safe tomorrow,  _please,_  Ser Jaime." Jaime notices her eyes become wet.

Without hesitation, Jaime goes to one knee so he's nearly at eye level with Sansa. "Hey," He whispers in a soft voice, cradling her face, "I won't let him hurt me if that will make you sleep easier."

That elicits even more tears from poor Sansa. "No, don't say that."

"Say what?"

"Don't say that just to try and calm my nerves." She wipes her nose. "Say it, and intend to keep yourself safe." She tries to look back down at her feet again, but Jaime cups her chin, forcing her to raise her eyes to him. Jaime notices how blue Sansa's eyes are, Tully blue. Bluer than the waters of the Red Fork. Jaime could swim in those eyes.

His face becomes complacent, staring at her fair face. She is comely, even for a little girl, with flowing auburn hair, pale, fair skin and big, blue eyes. "I... might be able to keep myself safe, and beat Ser Gregor tomorrow in the tourney. But..." The grin on his face grows bigger and bigger. "Only with your favor." 

Sansa's eyes widen. "My favor?"

"Oh yes. Your favor, to me? It is stronger than the heaviest armor, the heaviest shield. Your favor is faster than the horses that span the Dothraki sea, and sharper than Valyrian steel. With your favor, there is no doubt that I can defeat Ser Gregor in tomorrow's tourney." Jaime sighs. "But without it..."

"Okay, okay." Sansa is smiling now, despite the tear stains still on her cheeks, and a giggle is on her lips. "You have my favor, Ser Jaime Lannister."

Jaime reflects her smile, both hands on her tiny shoulders, her small frame. "Thank you, my lady." Before he stands, he plants one soft kiss on her forehead. To his surpise, Sansa does not blush. She merely takes his hand again and the two continue back to the opposite side of the castle.

When they arrive back at Lord Stark's guest rooms, Sansa makes Jaime kneel again so she can kiss him on his cheek, before scurrying back into her room. He can hear giggling on the other side of the door, which sparks a smile of his own.  _A funny little girl,_  he thinks,  _but beautiful, and such a lady._ She would make a wonderful wife for some lucky lord.

He senses eyes on his back, and turns to find Cersei, green eyes as cold as ice, glaring at him down the hall. Sighing, he returns to his sister as quietly as he can. 

* * *

 

"What were you thinking?" Cersei chastises him in her chambers. "Chatting with the Starks, as if we're the best of friends?"

"She's just a girl-"

"I don't care if she's a girl, a boy, an old hag with two teeth, stay away from her!"

 "You can't expect her to do anything-"

"You'd be surprised, Jaime. As I've been reminded numerous times, you aren't as  _well versed_  in the art of politics as the rest of us. You wouldn't  _expect_  her to do any harm, yet let's say one day she comes back to this same door, waiting for you and hears Lannister plans. Who do you think she would tell?"

"Her father."

"Her  _father_ , Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and the first person Sansa Stark would loose her tongue upon, should she overhear me."

A thought comes to Jaime. "You're jealous."

At first all Cersei can do was stand there, mouth agape. 

Jaime laughs. "You really shouldn't overreact so, sweet sister. Envy is a terrible look on you."

He does think he deserves the slap across the cheek he gets.

"Get  _out!_ " 

* * *

Early morning sunlight breaks through Sansa's windows, bleak and bleary. The rain had begun last night almost as soon as Jaime had left her, and hadn't let up until just before dawn. The clouds still hang in the air, casting a dreary setting on all of King's Landing. 

_The tourney,_  Sansa thinks.  _The tourney is today._

Last night comes to her very quickly: tossing and turning, running through the halls, and then Ser Jaime. Her stomach clenches at the thought of him, at the thought of what he has to do today. She shakes her head.  _No, he has my favor. He will be safe and he will be brave._

She gets up and begins to dress. She sorts through the chest she had brought along, full of dresses, and pulls out her prettiest one, a light pink silk dress with gold embroideries. She pins up her hair in the most formal fashion her mother had ever taught her, and dons a tiny gold necklace. She wishes she had something in more of the Lannister fashion, but she knows her father would never allow his daughter to wear such clothes. For reasons unknown to her, her father had always despised the lions of Casterly Rock.

Soon enough, both Starks are ready, and the rest of the castle has woken up as well. The two begin the walk down to the tourney yard, along with a mix of other spectators. The words  _Kingslayer_  and  _Mountain_  are murmured too many times to count, and Sansa notices that the closer her and her father get to the yard, the tighter his grip on her hand is. 

By the time they take their seats, Sansa's stomach is in knots. She nearly grasps her father's arm again, though she knows he would not like it. He disapproves of the compassion she has for Jaime Lannister. It is obvious in his every move.

After some stalling, the king stands long enough to signal the final standoff of the tourney, in which Ser Jaime Lannister (Sansa smiles just at the sound of his name) will face Ser Gregor Clegane, before collapsing back into his chair and calling for wine. The queen is tense next to him, perched on the edge of her chair, her chin angled slightly upwards as she scans the crowd. She meets eyes with Sansa for a tense moment, and in that moment her eyes turn to daggers, before she looks away.

Then Jaime is on the field, back in his white armor, still as well recieved as yesterday. Gregor quickly follows, large and hulking and menacing, and all of Sansa's previous fears come rushing back to her in an instant. She does not hesitate to take her father's arm this time, no matter what he will say later. She pretends it is Jaime's arm instead.

She can see Jaime scan for her in the stands. After a moment of searching, he locks eyes with her and nods once. All she can do is give him a nervous smile. 

He mounts his horse, dons his helm, shoves his shield onto his arm, and takes his lance in one hand, shifting it about before he finds a steady grip. Ser Gregor mounts his own mare (with some difficulty, because of his size) and yells a sort of battle cry before slamming his helm shut and taking up his lance. 

The bugle blares, and the standoff begins. Both horses gallop towards one another, both knights hunched over their mount, shields up and lances poised. The yard is silent save for the pounding of hooves against the dirt. They ride closer, closer... Sansa brings herself to watch despite her urge to look away...

The tip of the lance meets chestplate, and Gregor Clegane falls from his horse, hitting the dirt with the same impact as a sack of flour. The yard was still as quiet, save for the groans of Ser Gregor as he tried to get to his feet...

 ...and the distant claps of Sansa Stark.

Jaime turns to face her, the only emotions present in her eyes relief and joy. They meet eyes, not for the first time as knight and spectator, and she smiles. Ned Stark is nearly red.

Eventually scattered applause fills the yard, and Gregor leaves for the tents, huffing and puffing all the way back. Jaime rides his mare to the front of the dirt yard and dismounts before the king and his sister, bowing. 

Robert looks bored, and it shows in his voice. "Ser Jaime Lannister, champion of the tourney." He coughs, and drinks another cup of wine before continuing. "Who would you choose as your queen of love and beauty?"

A squire comes to his side, carrying an intricate wreath of flowers. Jaime smiles, takes the wreath from the squire's hands, and says, "I choose my queen to be Sansa Stark."

The shock from the audience is nearly audible. Sansa goes pinker than she ever had, and Ned Stark's face becomes one of terribly masked fury. The Stark girl stands and picks up her skirts as she inches her way down the steps to the edge of the yard. Jaime meets her there and the two share a smile before he places the crown upon her head and a kiss upon her cheek.

If the yard wasn't silent before, it is now. Sansa bows to her knight and retakes her seat next to her father.

* * *

 

Sansa waits by the door, impatient.  _He said he would be here to see me off._ Any minute now her father would be up looking for her. "Ten minutes," he had said, he had given her. And she was wasting them.

Just when the idea of looking for him came to mind, Jaime Lannister rounded the corner, out of breath and looking similar to the night before the tourney, when she had given him his favor, save for the crimson doublet he wore now.

 Sansa huffs at the sight of him. "I don't want to leave."

Jaime smirks, crossing the corridor to kneel in front of her. "And why would that be?"

"Because I want to stay here with you. You're my knight."

He takes both of her hands. "I will make sure we see each other again soon. I promise."

Sansa ponders what he's just said, before nodding. Jaime smiles, another placid, complacent smile, and opens his arms to her. "Come here."

They embrace for a moment, and Jaime smells rosewater in Sansa's flaming red hair. He breathes deeply, and when he exhales, they pull away. 

"Goodbye, Sansa Stark."

"Goodbye, Jaime Lannister."

Without another word Sansa turns away and walks down the hall, down towards her father and towards Winterfell, the crown of now-wilting flowers still in her hair.


End file.
